The 8-bit version of me in my 8-bit clown sweater returns to Diesel Sweeties for a sequel to yesterday's comic:

see more hipster robot webcomics and pixel t-shirts

Am I the only person who sees little gold shiny lines around 8-bit me that are awfully similar to the gold shiny lines we'd see around the gold bars in Pitfall? I ask because I have a condition that makes me see weird Atari graphics around things without warning.

I had to unbiggen the comic the same way I did yesterday and — Hey! Unbiggen! I think I just coined a perfectly cromulent word! — if you'd like to see the comic full-sized, so you can appreciate all 8-bits, you know what to do.

I don't know the original source, but I saw this at Reddit and couldn't not share it, because it's so totally awesome. If you haven't gotten your USRDA of Nerdfight today, you may want to read the comments over there. It's wonderfully amusing.

Edited to add: Oh. I'm an idiot. If I hadn't been enjoying the nerdfight so much, I would have read further down and seen the link to the entire Mini Star Wars set at Photobucket. My bad.

I should also take this opportunity to link to one of my favorite 365 projects at Flickr, Troopies365.

After playing Rock Band 2 for 2 straight hours and struggling though some songs I've never played before, I was worried that when the videos started making their way online, I'd look like an asshole who didn't know how to play fake instruments, and that everyone would laugh at me. But when I watch this video of us doing Livin' on a Prayer, all I see is the evening distilled to its essence: a lot of geeks having a lot of fun pretending to be rock stars on a real stage playing for a real audience, which is exactly what I hoped for when I planned it. I mean, we were up there playing 80s anthems, and there were people dancing in front of the stage. When I sang to a girl in the front row, she screamed like we were at an actual concert. For reals! It was so awesome, it was hard not to get caught up in the fantasy of the thing, and I don't think any of us who played the game spent more than 10 seconds fighting it.

In fact, this was so much fun, I think I may need to figure out a way to make it part of every con I go to … you know, like going on tour. \m/

This weekend, I'm heading out to Phoenix for the 2009 Phoenix Comicon. I had a fantastic time at this show last year. It reminded me of all the things I love about cons, and was a great way to kick off the year. I wrote three posts about the trip, but if you don't have time to read them all, here are some highlights.

Part one:

Friday night was a low-key preview night, so I figured I'd take my
books and stuff over to the convention center, which was helpfully
located just 100 yards from the hotel, get set up for the weekend, and
check out the other vendors.

While I was stacking some books on the table and excitedly looking
at a comics booth down the aisle, a couple of people came over to my
table. They wanted to buy The Collected Works of Me, Wil Wheaton.

"Really?" I said, "That's cool!"

We traded shiny gold rocks for dead trees, and I continued to
unpack. I placed some photos on the table: River and me in Stand by Me,
right after I shot the gun behind the Blue Point Diner, Gray Spacesuit
Wesley, Elvis Stamp Wesley, and Just A Geek Cover me.

"Awesome," I thought. "I'm all set up for tomorrow."

I grabbed my backpack and prepared to go shopping. Then I stopped, because more people had arrived.

We talked for a few minutes about geek things, and a little line
formed behind them. Then the line got a little longer, and before I
knew it, I'd been signing pictures and books for three hours. I never
got to go check out the rest of the vendor's area, because security
kicked me out when they closed the room down for the night, just a few
minutes after I signed my last autograph.

"Well, that was pretty cool and unexpected," I thought as I headed back to my room. "I think this is going to be a great weekend."

Part two:

The day was a blur of friendly faces, signing autographs and books,
shaking hands, posing for pictures, mutual geeking at scientists (there
were lots of scientists there, mostly astronomers, who listened
patiently to me while I slimed them with my slobbering geekiness) and
my constant excitement and wonder that so many people knew about my
books and wanted to pick them up.

This went on for a few hours. Then, during a lull in the day around
lunchtime, Walter walked over to my end of the table after posing for a
picture with some fans and looked at my books.

"I hear you're a writer now," he said, looking at Happiest Days, "What do you write?"

I told him.

"What's this one about?"

I told him, then I showed him the Manga.

"Check it out," I said, opening it to one page, "I totally blew up Leonard!"

He grinned, and I pointed to Dancing Barefoot.

"There's a story in here about the first time I met Bill, and what an ass he was to me," I said.

Walter laughed and said, "Who hasn't he been an ass to?"

I laughed with him. I suspect that if WFS had been there, he
probably would have laughed with us . . . before ordering us off the
bridge.

"If you're interested, and if you think you'd have time to read it," I said, "I'd love for you to have a copy of Happiest Days."

Walter smiled at me, surprised. "Really?"

"It would mean a lot to me," I said.

"I'd like to buy it from you," he said.

We danced for a minute, me trying to give it to him, and him trying
to pay me for it. It was an exquisite tango, and I won't reveal the
victor, because it's not that important. What is important to
me, though, is that Walter has a copy of my book, which I hope he
reads, because there's this story in it about conventions that I think
he can appreciate on a different level than most readers.

And Part three:

"Just a few years ago," I said, "I rarely came to conventions as a
guest, because I felt like I was trying to hold on to whatever fading
celebrity I once had. I didn't do it because I wanted to be famous
again. I did it because, at the time, it was all I could do,
which was so much worse. But now, when I go to cons, I feel good about
it. I look forward to it, because I feel like I can share the Star Trek
thing with people who love it, but I'm really here as an indie
publisher, just like you."

I thought for a second and added, "You know what it's like? It's like — "

"Don't say 'rising from the ashes' while you're in Phoenix! Don't say 'rising from the ashes' while you're in Phoenix!" My brain screamed at me.

"It's sort of like rising from the ashes for me, in a way, which is a pretty lame thing to say since I'm in Phoenix."

"Do you even listen to me anymore? That's it," my brain said. "I'm out of here."

I've been attending conventions since sixth grade, and I've determined that there's one fundamental truth about conventions: they reflect the personalities and motivations of their organizers. Whether I'm there as a fan or as a speaker, the best shows are the ones where the organizers just want to create an atmosphere that's fun, affordable, and a place where we can really let our geek flag fly. Phoenix Comicon is just like that, and if you're within an hour or so of the convention, I think it'll be worth the trip to come hang out for the day.

I'll put my schedule up in another post, either later today, or early tomorrow. I'm writing a couple of columns next, so I'll be at the computer. If you have any questions about the con (that aren't "what's your schedule?" because that's coming later on, feel free to ask, and I'll do my best to answer them quickly.)

Recently, on anne and wil’s excellent new york adventure . . .

I reclined my seat to the maximum four degrees allowed, put on a silly eye mask, and settled in for a few hours of sleep.

That’s when the turbulence started. Seriously! It was like the air
was just waiting for me to close my eyes so it could start shaking the
plane. Imagine that you’re starting to fall asleep, and someone comes
up and shakes your chair: "Hey! Wake up! Dude! Wake up!"

Yeah, it’s hilarious now, but at the time? Not that funny.

—

"Strange things are afoot at the Circle K, Ted."

—

"I really want to see the Flatiron building," I said.

"I really wish you wouldn’t talk in hyperlinks," Anne said.

"Sorry. I’m a blogger. I can’t help it."

—

"It’s people! It’s people! Soylent Green is people!"

—

"Okay, we just have to walk up one more block, and then you’ll totally recognize it," I said.

One block later, Anne said, "Hey! I totally recognize this building!"

"I know it’s stupid to walk all the way up here just to look at a
building with a funny shape," I said, "but since we never do
authentically ‘touristy’ things, I thought this was a better plan than
going to the Hard Rock."

—

"The blue wire? The blue wire?! Which one is the fucking blue wire?!

—

"Just stop it. This conversation isn’t even happening. You’re just making it up to amuse yourself."

It was true.

"How am I doing?"

"The real me would probably make a comment that’s a lot funnier than
anything you can come up with, and since you’re putting words into my
mouth anyway, I’m just going to say that you’re handsome, suave and
charming."

"Oh go on," I said.

"Also, when we get home, you should buy several classic game cabinets and put them in your office."

"You’re the boss, dear," I said.

—

And now, part three.

The sun was setting as we walked downtown on Park. It threw pink light on the sides of buildings, turning West-facing windows into little pots of golden fire. At street level, we were covered in cooling shadows. We were expecting cold weather, but thanks to the myth of climate change, New York was enjoying an unseasonably warm day, with temperatures in the upper 70s. Sidewalk cafes were filling up as we passed them, music and people spilled out of every bar we passed.

We got to Galaxy the same time Kathleen and Atom arrived with Atom’s friend Sheena, who I quickly learned was awesome. Though it was the day before their wedding, Kat and Atom were completely relaxed. I remembered how stressed out Anne and I were the day before our wedding, and admired them both. Maybe I envied them, just a little bit, but I kept that to myself.

Galaxy was awesome, and I ate my weight in incredible vegetarian food. After we were done, we walked them back to their apartment.

"I just love how all the sidewalk cafes are open tonight," Atom said.

"Yeah," I said, "the energy and sense of community they create is really cool. We don’t have anything quite like this where we live." I thought for a moment. "Well, not that’s close enough to walk to, or stays open late."

Kathleen and Atom have been bi-costal for about a year, but they recently decided to permanently move to New York, and after just a couple of hours in their neighborhood, I could completely understand why.

We spent a little time at their apartment, where we did not subject my wife to a furious Guitar Hero III battle betwixt Atom and myself on their Wii. "I’m trying real hard to keep the massive geeking out to a minimum on this trip," I said, "so it will also be a vacation for Anne."

The controller glowed with a seductive light that only I could see. I turned my back to it and pretended it wasn’t there. Nobody asked me why I was flushed and sweating. I wouldn’t have been able to tell them why if they did.

Eventually, it was time for us to leave and let them get some rest, since they were, you know, getting married and everything in less than 24 hours.

We passed the same sidewalk cafes and several bars on our way back to the hotel. I lingered by one of them and said to Anne, "I think we should stop here and have a beer, on principle."

"On principle?"

"Yeah, on principle. How often do we get to just walk into a bar that’s filled with people and music, have a beer, and then walk right back out to  . . . well, not to home, but to where we’re sleeping. What I mean is –"

"Stop." She said. "You had me at ‘beer.’"

My wife is awesome.

We went inside, and found two seats at the end of the bar, near the door. I couldn’t believe our luck; the place was packed, standing-room only, and we’d gotten two great seats, right when we walked in . . . underneath the freezing air conditioner, which was pouring — no, blasting — down on the two seats.

We ordered two Sierra Nevadas and sat there, in the frozen air, on principle. Our good luck continued, when, after just a few minutes, the air either switched off, or was deflected away by my +3 field of awesome or we just got used to it, or something.

The Mets and the Yankees were both playing, and the games were on several televisions hanging over the patrons, who weren’t shy about declaring their loyalty. It was loud in the bar, but not obnoxious.

Well, not until the three Wall Street guys and their Princess friend from Long Island showed up. Wall Street Guy Number One called the bartender over, and asked him for a Coors Light on draft.

I bit my beer snob lip and kept quiet. The bartender told Wall Street Guy Number One that they didn’t have Coors Light on draft, only Bud Light.

This is when Wall Street Guy Number One smacked his open palm down on the bar, hard, to express his displeasure at this most distressing news.

"Fine," he said, "I’ll just have a Stella."

I bit my lip a little harder.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, we couldn’t help but listen to these guys play a verbal game of "Who has the biggest dick in the room?" It was incredibly amusing, and everything made sense when Wall Street Guy Number Three revealed that they were all in the same fraternity together. This supports my theory that, even when you’re in your mid-twenties, out of college and working for The Man, you can still be a Frat Guy.

We finished our beer, and — as so often happens when we sit down for ‘just a beer’ — I wanted another.

Anne said, "Do you want one more before we go?"

"It’s getting a little obnoxious in here," I said. "Let’s go down the block and find someplace else."

"Are you suggesting we go . . ." she paused, and tilted her head to one side as she raised an eyebrow. ". . . bar-hopping?"

I caught the bartender’s eye, and waved my hand in the universal gesture for "check please." I hoped he wouldn’t noticed that we’d kept a tab open, and put exactly one beer each on it.

"Well, I guess since we’re moving from one bar to another, it’s technically bar-hopping," I said, "but isn’t it more like three or four before you’re officially doing it?"

"No," she said, "that’s when you’re on a pub crawl."

The bartender dropped off our bill and I signed for it.

"Well, I guess we’re bar-hopping then," I said. "On principle."

We stood up. As I attempted to navigate my way around the Frat Guys, the girl with them tossed her hair back, sniffed dramatically and said, "Well, I just don’t like to hang out with people who are more attractive than I am."

"You must not have too many friends," I thought, and gave myself a mental high-five.

We walked down a block and found another bar. This one was quieter and not nearly as crowded. The bartender spoke in an Irish brogue that was too thick to be a put on.  I was surprised to see that they had Mirror Pond Pale Ale on draft, so I asked for a pint.

He looked at Anne.

"Make it two," she said.

This bar was way more our speed, and before we knew it, we were into our second pint. That’s when I overheard the following bit of conversation from behind us:

Guy 1: Isn’t Thailand the place to get, like, 10 year-old boys?
Guy 2: Why would you even want that?
Guy 1: I don’t! I’m just saying that —
Guy 2: What’s wrong with you?
Guy 1: I’m just saying that if that’s what you wanted, Thailand is the place to go.
Guy 2: I can’t be associated with you.

Before you wig, there wasn’t even a hint of seriousness in the conversation, which I dutifully recorded on a cocktail napkin, having left my little notebook that I carry for recording exactly this sort of thing in my backpack. You know, so I wouldn’t lose it.

The two guys began discussing their hatred of Facebook. The last thing I wrote down was, "Do not put me on Facebook! I will fucking kill you if you put me on Facebook. Get me the fuck off the Internet! Next time I’m on the Internet, it will be on Wikipedia."

Yeah, I don’t know what he meant, either, but after three beers, it was funny enough for me to write it down.

It was getting late, and though our bodies thought it was three hours earlier, we’d still been up for about 14 hours on less than five hours of quality sleep. All of a sudden, we were exhausted, and ready to collapse like the Mets down the stretch.

I put some cash on the bar, and we walked back to our hotel. It was nearly midnight, but the city was still vibrant and alive around us.

As I fell into bed I thought, "Man, this city really never does sleep."

Seconds later, I was a Viking.

To be continued . . .